Muti Nation Read Online Free PDF

Gert van Rooyen was a paedophile and serial killer who was never convicted and who, together with his mistress Joey Haarhoff, abducted and apparently murdered at least six young girls between 1988 and 1989. The pair committed suicide when they were faced with arrest, after the escape of their last kidnapped victim. Their other victims have never been found. It’s one of the country’s greatest unsolved crimes, Howl,” I explain, retrieving the black dress from my wardrobe. “There’s been a lot of speculation over the years and only a few hard facts, unfortunately.”
    Howlen shakes out his shirt to rid it of creases. “But what does it have to do with the address?”
    I glance over my shoulder. “That was his address,” I say, and try to reach the zipper on the back of the dress.
    Howlen walks over, pushes my hands away, and zips it shut. His hands linger on my shoulders, before he goes back to dressing himself.
    “Anyway, I can guarantee it’ll be a media circus out there today, so let’s not talk about the case in the field.” I put on my black heels, one after the other, and walk towards the dressing table to do my hair and put on some make-up.
    Howlen is ready by the time I’m done, and he looks rather dapper for someone in yesterday’s clothes. Few people can do the walk-of-shame as confidently as he, though I doubt he’s bothered by such mundane things.
    We drive to the crime scene in his car, listening to the University of Pretoria’s radio station—TUKS FM’s breakfast show. The volume is low, but the news about the murder at the old Gert van Rooyen house breaks at 06:00 a.m. sharp.
    “Does Pretoria have a copycat killer on his hands? Is this murder in any way related to the original missing girls? Who is the victim?” The radio presenters speculate while Howlen searches for a parking spot alongside news vans and random vehicles. So many faces have turned out to see this morose cat-and-mouse game between a faceless foe and the good men and women in blue.
    I switch off the radio, annoyed by the nonsense of having to circumnavigate other people’s theories when the cold, hard facts haven’t even been established yet.
    Howlen parks his silver Yaris almost a block away from the crime scene, away from the mob’s curiosity. Together, we walk in silence, the previous night a distant memory. We are the epitome of professionalism.
    A few people look at us as we pass through the barricade keeping the fanatical audience at bay, but nobody says anything of value. There’s a “hello” or a nod, or a polite wave from the officers who know us. There are also hushed conversations amongst the civilians; nothing concrete, just rumour and gossip, and disbelief at this travesty. Otherwise, we’re left to our own thoughts. I always like listening to the din of the crowds. They might know something we don’t, something we can use to further an investigation. It helps to keep ones ears open.
    The property is hidden with seven-foot-high concrete walls and a metal gate in serious need of a new coat of paint. Dead shrubs have grown wild over the years and peep across the property’s defences. A magnificent bottlebrush tree blooms large red flowers which hang precariously against the peeling white backdrop of the wall. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, I’m sure.
    The atmosphere is disgusting.
    Multiple layers of excitement, insecurity, fear and death thickens in the air, threatening to suffocate me.
    “This feels wrong,” I say, more to myself than Howlen.
    He agrees with a mumbled, “It does.”
    “Finally,” Detective Mosepi says when we approach, irritated. “Come in.”
    The gate slides shut behind us as we follow him inside. There are detectives everywhere, a few uniforms and even the forensics team has shown up. The crime scene is partitioned off with a white tent, which will become increasingly uncomfortable as the heat rises with the sun.
    Detective Mosepi talks as we walk. “The victim is a